Sigquaya

  There were gasps from the crowd. Rhiana’s jaw dropped and her eyes stared, searching her mother, searching the Elder.

  “Yes, yes,” the Elder spoke, clearly and loudly, for all to hear. “The Temple was well aware of all of this, Amelia. And your transgressions have been atoned for.”

  Amelia cocked her head, the sad smile still in place.

  “I’m sure they have,” she said. “But . . . have yours, Elder?”

  Another murmur rippled through. The Gildrom pool looked as though it was boiling now, though no steam arose from the water. Waves splashed over the sides and on to the other Rectors’ feet.

  The Elder’s jaw twitched and his eyes kept flicking from Amelia to the pool, but he remained silent.

  Amelia now stood face-to-face with him. “Has the Temple forgiven you, Aoren? Have the gods? And what about Skye?” Her voice grew quiet, and yet resonated throughout the Gildrom, even above the boiling Gildrom water. “Do you think she has forgiven you? Her murderer? Her father?”

  Scandalous gasps rang out, and Rhiana’s face fell. “Mother?”

  Amelia looked to her daughter. “I told you, Rhiana,” she said quietly, “that you cannot hope to bring about change from a position of inferiority.” She turned again to the Elder. “I am no longer in that position. And I am ashamed and sorry that I ever was. And I am sorry that it took the death of my family to bring me here—to this place, and to this purpose.”

  The Elder grimaced, his face a mask of hatred. He swept out his hand, reaching for the Gildrom pool, bringing a thick column of water crashing toward Amelia. The crowd of people on the other side of the pool cried out in panic.

  Without turning, Amelia held out her hand and the water stopped fast, inches from her palm, looking like a shaft of golden amber rotating in the firelight.

  At that the crowd, including the other Rectors, began clamoring for the passageway, pushing, shoving, elbowing, and trampling.

  As the last of the crowd thinned and disappeared up the passage, The Elder was still looking with amazement at the unmoving column of water, mesmerized. Amelia suddenly flicked her wrist, dividing it and sending it like two thick snakes spiraling around him, wrapping him like rope and jerking him bodily into the Gildrom pool. The Elder thrashed and heaved. Amelia held her hand over the water and slowly closed her fist. The Elder’s arms were thrust to his sides, his eyes bulged, and his breath came in a ragged gasp as the water squeezed the life from him.

  Rhiana couldn’t believe the unfolding scene before her; her mind was on overload. Above everything she and Arteura had been through over these last days, this was too much!

  “Mother!” she cried, straining against her restraints, the cords of her neck taut and sweat trickling into her pleading eyes. “You are the one who taught me that Sigquaya was used only to heal. To nurture—”

  “To draw out infection,” Amelia continued for her. “To ease pain. To bind wounds. Yes, Rhiana, I said those things.” Still holding sway over the water, she turned to face her daughter. “And I still believe them.”

  She turned back, looking to the Elder with as much curiosity as anything. “Water will do the bidding of its master, whatever that may be. But . . . given the choice? Water will always choose to sustain. To cleanse and to heal.”

  It seemed to Rhiana that her mother’s sad smile had returned, and she was talking as much to herself as to anyone left in the Gildrom. “There are times when the infection is within a single body,” Amelia lamented. “And there are times when an entire community is infected.”

  Her smile settled on Rhiana—an odd, emotional mixture of relief, affection, and longing. “Water always wills to cleanse the infection.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “You were my everything, Rhiana. I could not let him take you, too. Or Arteura. Without you, I have nothing.”

  The two Þrymm guards stood by the passageway. They wisely hadn’t moved, stoic yet betrayed by their darting eyes and the beads of sweat trickling down their temples. Their hands were at the ready of their still-sheathed swords. The crowd was gone. Only Rhiana, Amelia, the Elder, and Doronaeus, the Elder’s assistant, who looked like a bewildered, open-mouthed statue standing beside where his master had been moments ago, remained.

  “Release her,” Amelia said to no one in particular. Doronaeus anxiously nodded to the guards, one of whom nervously stepped forward and released the locks at Rhiana’s hands and ankles. The Elder looked on, helpless and red-faced, gasping for breath.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said with a bow of her head. “Now, leave us.”

  The guards looked to the rigid, unmoving Elder who could manage nothing more than a convulsive croak, then to Doronaeus, who gave them another single nod. With that, they spun and quick-stepped out of the Gildrom, disappearing in a haste down the corridor. The young assistant circled around the pool to follow behind.

  “Not you,” Amelia said.

  Doronaeus stopped mid-step, afraid to even raise his head.

  “Someone must tell them,” she said.

  Without looking up, Doronaeus stammered, “T-tell who? Tell them wh-what?”

  “Tell the people, of course. The ones who are afraid and exploited. The ones who follow like lost sheep, naïve and blind, braying for someone to feed them, to shear them, to bind them in stockades. Someone must tell them the truth of the world around them. And someone must tell them of the confessions of Aoren Carpeian, whom you know as the Elder of the Cyneþrymm.”

  Curiosity overcame him and he turned, looking into Amelia’s violet eyes for the first time. “His confessions?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply. Then, she opened her clenched hand, and the water surrounding the Elder relaxed its hold. The Elder sucked in breath, still bobbing in the pool. His arms were free enough that he scrambled for a handhold at the Gildrom’s edge.

  “Shall you tell them, Aoren? Or shall I?” she asked.

  “Amelia,” he gasped. “I swear to all the gods that if you don’t—AAHHH!”

  The Elder strained as the water tightened its hold.

  Despite herself, and all that had happened to her over the previous days, Rhiana pleaded, “Mother, please—”

  “That was not me, my child,” Amelia answered quietly. “Sigquaya is only doing its will. It too demands the truth be told.”

  The Elder’s eyes burned with rage as he worked his mouth, whisked away from the pool’s edge, unable to speak and gulping for air.

  Amelia only shrugged. “Then I shall tell it, Aoren.”

  She turned her gaze to the young assistant again. “All that I have said until now is truth. After my first husband passed in the war, I had no choice but to submit myself to servitude within the Temple. It seemed a meager living, but passable. Acceptable. But then, over time, my servitude began to be . . . taken advantage of, by some of the Rectors. Physically.” She glanced to the Elder. “Sexually. Not all of them, but then again, none were truly innocent, even by their acquiescence. But, it was Aoren who impregnated me.”

  “How can—how do you know?” Doronaeus asked, rephrasing it to more of a question than an accusation.

  “Because, as I began to show, the other Rectors began to keep their distance, avoiding eye contact even, and whispering among themselves.” Another glance to the Elder. “All except for Aoren.” Back to Doronaeus. “And, at that, I knew.”

  “But Skye was . . . sacrificed,” Rhiana chimed in, rubbing her sore and raw wrists, just as interested in her mother’s silent and mysterious past as Doronaeus.

  “A twofold punishment, I always assumed,” Amelia answered. “One, to eliminate a problem and buy my silence and compliance. And two, because Derrick was being a thorn in the side of the Temple.

  “And rightly so,” she added with a shrug.

  Then, the corners of her mouth turned down, and her eyes hazed into the middle distance. “But there was also another reason.”

  The two waited her out. The Elder merely twitched and gurgled, his face crim
son and his eyes still flaming with anger.

  “Skye was a beautiful girl. Bright and inquisitive.” Amelia smiled. “And she was also deeply, deeply gifted with Sigquaya. Even in her young age, I could tell she would be special. Important.” A third glance to the Elder. “And a threat.”

  “You had shown signs, my darling,” Amelia said to Rhiana, reaching out and caressing her cheek. “You were gifted as well, and that is nothing against your abilities.” She smiled. “But Skye . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her smile faltered.

  “It is not something I’d seen before, and not since,” Amelia continued, but then she suddenly brightened and looked squarely to Rhiana. “Until Arteura.”

  Rhiana’s mouth fell.

  Amelia nodded. “I never considered it myself. And I think the magic learned. Kept itself hidden, until just recently. Sadly, Aoren picked up on it as well,” she said, glancing yet again to the Elder. “And that is why, when the opportunity arose to capture and eliminate you both, he took it.” She shrugged again. “At that point, he couldn’t afford not to.”

  All eyes turned to the Elder, who seethed but forcibly remained silent.

  “But I am ahead of myself,” Amelia continued. “Aren’t I, Aoren.”

  The Elder choked.

  “I only knew that Sigquaya could mask itself, hide itself, because it had done so from me,” Amelia said. “I only discovered that Aoren possessed the magic by accident. By Aoren’s arrogance and carelessness. And when I did, confronting him about his misuse and hubris . . .” Her eyes glistened with tears as she turned to Rhiana. “You were the one who paid dearly for it, my love. You and—”

  Rhiana’s eyes widened. “Tristan.”

  Amelia could only nod.

  Rhiana’s face darkened, and she turned to the Elder. The man choked and bent as the water tightened closer around him. Rhiana felt a hand on her arm.

  “No, my love,” Amelia said softly. “This is not your burden to bear. Aoren must pay, yes. And he will. But not by your hand.”

  Rhiana grimaced, and the water eased. Slightly.

  “He has many crimes, my love. And his rage has now consumed him. Whatever man he once was, or may have been, he is now only filled with fear and vanity. Your husband has paid the ultimate price for trying to save you.” Another glance to the Elder. “As has mine.”

  Rhiana could no longer breathe. Her mind was flooded once again, her emotions on overload. Despite herself, the water tightened around the Elder.

  Amelia turned to Doronaeus. “Your sacrifices, whatever this celebration and servitude is meant to be or once was, is now a mere deceit and nothing more. It is theater for the whims and vainglory of one man. The gods, whatever they may be, have no need of our penance, or our sacrifice. This,” she said, indicating the Gildrom’s pool, “is no more than fiction, and a shame.”

  Amelia took a long breath, closed her eyes a moment, and steeled herself.

  “You may go,” she said to Doronaeus.

  Doronaeus raised his chin toward the Elder. “What are you going to do to him?”

  Amelia pursed her lips and sighed. “That is up to the will of the water. I will only do the water’s bidding. It alone will determine his fate, just as it has for all who have come here before.

  “Do what you will with all you have heard,” she went on. “The people will not believe me, nor will they consider Rhiana. Our time in Brynslæd is done. If the truth is to be told, it must be done by you.”

  Doronaeus held her gaze a long moment but then nodded. Everything he had seen and heard here at its surface was unbelievable, new, and strange. Like Rhiana, his mind was a whirling torrent of thoughts and questions crashing against one another and splintering to a thousand more. But he couldn’t deny what he had witnessed the Elder become in his time as the man’s attendant—the growing savagery and conceit—which only bolstered the gravity of Amelia’s words. The fear was gone from his eyes, replaced by a sincere resolve.

  “It will,” he said. “There are Rectors who will listen to this. And they will believe.”

  “Many already know,” Amelia said sadly. “You must convince them not just to believe, but to act.

  “The infection will be removed,” she added. “The healing must be done by the body itself.”

  He tightened his lips and gave her a single nod. And, at that, he left.

  Without turning, Amelia said, “You must go too, my daughter.”

  Rhiana opened her mouth to protest, but Amelia silenced her with a look.

  “Wait for me at the cave’s entrance. I won’t be long.” She turned her full attention to the helpless Elder. “This is not your place, Rhiana. This is not your burden. Where you go, and what you do, from this day forward, should no longer be determined by what you have done, by guilt, or by the coercion of others.”

  “But, what about you?”

  “My fate was sealed long ago, my love. And I have been too long in putting it off.” She again fixed Rhiana with an odd, emotional mixture of relief, affection, and longing. “Almost too long.”

  Rhiana started to object, and Amelia shook her head.

  “Rhiana,” she said, firmly, decisively. “Go.”

  Reluctantly, Rhiana tightened her jaw and turned. The Elder squirmed and choked, his eyes now wide in pleading. She glanced a final time to her mother, then walked from the Gildrom and up the passage. Tears streaked down her cheeks, and her tightened jaw quivered. The passage was dark, but she knew the way by heart now. She would never forget.

  After several moments, feeling her way around a few bends, in the midst of utter darkness, Rhiana heard the unmistakable sound of water crashing and thrashing. There was no cry, no plea, no screaming or final words. There was only the sound of the water.

  And then silence.

  29

  Not a Boy, Not Yet a Man

  Marshaan and Telluras were discussing where to go and what to do.

  “I don’t relish the thought of going over this damned mountain.”

  “Nor do I, but what other choice do we have? Return by way of the Waters?”

  Rahn had joined me at my sister’s side.

  Arteura gingerly touched the wound at my lower back.

  “I can help with that,” she said.

  We turned, her hand at my back and mine at hers, arm in arm, as we joined Marshaan and Telluras.

  Suddenly, an arrow whizzed by my ear, ricocheting off the mountainside and bouncing away. I spun to see a uniformed young man facing us, his eyes set, narrow, and unblinking, another arrow already notched.

  “That was a warning,” he said. “I didn’t have to miss.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I believe y—”

  “Marcus?” Arteura cried.

  My words caught, and my jaw dropped.

  Marcus?!

  “Step away, Arteura,” he said. “And lower your weapons, all of you. There are others who are coming and will be here soon enough.”

  Marshaan and Telluras stepped up to us, tight-jawed and tight-fisted, the obvious question written all over their faces: Who was this obviously young and naively bold soldier?

  We were five across now—Marshaan, Telluras, Rahn, Arteura, and me—facing . . .

  My brother?

  “That’s far enough,” he growled.

  “Marcus, you don’t understand,” Arteura pleaded.

  “Son,” Marshaan added, “I think you need to think about this.”

  “I understand plenty,” he answered. His eyes darted to the carnage of the fallen Rectors. “I let you pass, Arteura?” His voice was breaking. “For this? This is what you do? This is who, what, you’ve become?”

  “Marcus,” she said again. “You don’t understand. I had no choice.” She grasped my hand. “This is—”

  “Caden,” I interrupted. “My name is Caden.”

  She shot me a look and I glanced back at her, ever so slightly shaking my head.

  No, not yet. This isn’t the time. He won’t understand. Or care. Or . .
.

  “I don’t care who you are,” he said. His eyes scanned the grounds a second time. “You did this?”

  There was no sense in denying. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, we did. We are travelers, trying to pass through. They confronted us. They left us no—”

  “I should kill you where you stand.”

  Arteura stepped between us, steadily and intentionally, Marcus’s arrow was now aimed squarely at his sister’s, our sister’s, heart. A puzzled look clouded his face, and his bow wavered. But, just as quickly, it regained its solid mark.

  “Marcus,” Arteura said, more calmly now. “Please. You don’t know—”

  “What don’t I know, sister?”

  Arteura breathed, steadying herself. Gently, out of sight of our brother, I placed a reassuring hand on Arteura’s back.

  “You don’t know what our mother and I have been through. You don’t know what the Elder has become. You don’t know what the Temple—”

  “The Temple serves the Cyneþrymm. The Elder serves the Cyneþrymm. I serve the—”

  “Marcus! You’re just a boy!”

  His eyes hardened, and his hand twitched at his bow.

  “Maybe I should kill you as well,” Marcus growled. “You’re just as guilty for all this as they are.”

  Suddenly, a knife flew between us, sticking firmly in Marcus’s hand, pinning it to the bow. The arrow let loose, flying wildly at the sky as Marcus screamed, clutching his wounded hand, stuck firmly now to the shaking bow.

  “MARCUS!” Arteura cried and ran to him.

  I looked to Marshaan, his hand still outstretched. “I had to,” he said. “He was distracted, and we don’t have time for this.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But as if this isn’t all bizarre enough”—I cocked my head toward Marcus— “that’s my brother.”

  “What the—you’re what?” Marshaan growled. “You’ve got some family issues, boy.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been away,” I said as we ran up, surrounding Arteura, who knelt over our brother. He was laid out on the grass, grimacing and moaning, as she held his hand still.